


48 Times England Cared

by volliglosgelost



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: England (Country), English Counties, Family Drama, Family Feels, Gen, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, Minor America/England (Hetalia), Minor England/France (Hetalia), Multi, Pirate England (Hetalia), World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:01:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25172047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volliglosgelost/pseuds/volliglosgelost
Summary: England is a small country, if you ignore his unshakeable (maybe) ties to his brothers Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. And yet, his country is subdivided into 48 sections, each with their own jobs and distinct lives and personalities.This is a story based on the popular concept that countries' provinces and states are also personified, but for the 48 counties of England. Each chapter will be a small story about England (Arthur) and one of his counties/cities. I really want to flesh out the character of each county so I hope you'll stick around to read even if you're not from England.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	1. London Bridge is Falling Down - 1941

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for giving this story a chance! Hopefully I'll be able to personify my county OCs accurately!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OC - the City of London/Greater London, Henry Kirkland. This chapter is set in 1941, where I would assume he looks like a seventeen/eighteen-year-old young man. The city dates back to Roman times, so Henry is an old personification, but in my head, he looks younger than Arthur because he's only the capital, whilst Arthur is the country. 
> 
> Henry is a lot like Arthur, very gruff and unemotional, quite a tsundere. You don't see a lot of his actual personality here, so I might cameo him later on, but I think he and Arthur have a very strong brotherly relationship.
> 
> I picked Francis as someone as another potential father figure due to the Norman invasion of England in 1066. Our history is so massively tied up with the French that it just lends itself.

The pain was immense. Arthur could barely feel his lungs as he ran through the city, barely stopping to notice the wide, confused eyes of civilians as he sped by. There was blood dripping from his nose, he could feel the coppery taste of it on his lips and tongue. And yet, he kept going. He had to. He must. 

Even in times of warfare and stress, a Country Personification had ties to their Capital. Ties that couldn't be severed, no matter how strained the individual relationship and no matter how painful meetings between the pair could be. Without a Capital, a Country was nothing. Which is why Arthur was running.

He had to breathe. Finally, reluctantly, he stopped, doubling over in pain and groaning as the streams of blood continued to flow from his nose. And now, from the sides of his mouth. 

Was this how Francis had felt when Paris fell to the Axis? France had been screaming in pain as his Capital Personification was ripped away from his side and into the enemy camp. At least Arthur didn't have to contend with that. Thank heavens for small mercies.

The air raid siren blared overhead, and Arthur winced as a sharp pain rang in his gut. The civilians around him ran for cover, babes in arms swept away in a horrendous open display of human terror and agony. Arthur waited, still bent over in pain. 

"Sir?" 

Arthur looked up into the eyes of someone he didn't recognise. They wore the familiar khaki uniform of the Home Guard, and were clearly human by the deep wrinkles around their eyes. A veteran, no doubt. Stayed behind because of his age, but longed to be in the trenches with a gun.

_If only you knew what it was like there, you wouldn't wish for it so badly._

Arthur shuddered, but slowly managed to straighten himself. The older gentleman reached out a hand to steady him, but Arthur waved him away. Force of habit, perhaps. England hadn't fallen yet, so neither would Arthur. 

"I'm looking for Henry Kirkland," he said, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. Then, he realised that blood was probably still running from his nose and mouth, and grasped his small white handkerchief from his uniform pocket. 

"You need to take cover, sir," to his credit, the Home Guard officer sounded neither peeved nor patronising. Just worried. "The Jerries are about to bomb us again."

Arthur nodded, wheezing slightly as a sharp pain hit him in the side once more. Damn this fucking Blitz, damn it to hell. I can barely walk anymore. He replaced the handkerchief and swapped it for his credentials, which he waved in front of the humans face. "Brigadier Arthur Kirkland, British Army."

A snap of boots. A quick stand to attention. This old dog was a veteran, all right. "My apologies Brigadier Kirkland Sir!" And now a salute, which Arthur was quick to wave away. "I must ask you to take cover for now though Sir - it's not safe to be out here."

"I need to see Henry Kirkland," this time the plea was clear in Arthur's voice. Then, his voice completely cracked. "I need to know if he's okay. If he's alive. Please."

The other man hesitated, but finally slung an arm around Arthur's trembling shoulders. "I can take you to him, Sir," he nodded. "He's alive, I can promise you that, Brigadier."

A rush of relief ran through Arthur's body at the words. He had half a mind to hug the old man, or kiss him, or dance a jig in the middle of the bombed out street. But his body gave another sharp twinge of pain, and he gasped aloud.

"Thank you," he managed to get out, after another pause to catch his breath. "Let's get out of this blasted Blitz, shall we?"

The old man led Arthur to the entrance to an Underground Station - a fact which made Arthur chuckle, despite himself. How Winston hated how the Londoners had been using Aldwych as a hide out in these times - but it was one of the safest places to be when the planes descended and the bombs fell. 

"I know," the man cracked a wry smile. "Young Kirkland has been helping us out down here a lot, you and your wife should be very proud of him."

"That we are," Arthur nodded, choosing not to mention that Henry wasn't technically his son and even if he was, the closest thing to a mother he had was Francis. But for the intents and purposes of the human world, Henry was his eldest son, staying behind in England to work as a medic. Essential work, no doubt. Especially when Henry had to remain in London to keep it as safe for his inhabitants as possible. 

It seemed like an endless plunge into the deep, dank depths of the Underground, but when Arthur and the old man finally emerged onto the platform, they were greeted by the tightly knitted bushy eyebrows of Henry Kirkland himself.

Arthur opened his mouth, ready to refute a verbal lashing that he would doubtless get for putting himself in danger- but then he stopped, as Henry threw his arms around the personification of England (properly the United Kingdom, if there had to be only one representative for that conglomerate).

"Arthur," Henry rushed out, gripping England tightly. "You're okay!"

"I could say the same about you," Arthur managed to laugh, wrapping his arms around Henry in an uncharacteristic show of affection towards his Capital. "You're...?"

The question hung in the air, unspoken due to the number of humans surrounding the pair. But Henry understood. He nodded. 

"The London spirit never gives up," a grin now. The pair let go of each other now, Henry clapping Arthur on the back. "We're stronger together."

"That we are," the old man was still there, looking on at the family reunion with happiness - and maybe a little sadness - in his eyes. 

"Ah, yes!" Henry straightened up, straightening out his own (slightly bloodstained) Home Guard uniform, and put a hand on the old man's shoulder. "Thanks for bringing in Arthur, Harry - Arthur, this is our Squad Commander, Harold Westwood!"

"Pleasure to officially meet you, Harold," Arthur held out a hand, which was enthusiastically shaken by the old man- Harry. "Thank you. You have my thanks."

"My pleasure, Brigadier," Harry smiled, looking from Arthur, to Henry, then back again. "You two look young enough to be siblings!" 

Arthur choked out a laugh, but was quickly cut off by an intense flash of pain. The ground shook overhead. London was being bombed, again. 

A glance to Henry, who was somehow still upright. The pain barely registered on his face, apart from a sharp bite of the lip. But then-

A loud, boisterous song came from behind the trio; from the men, women and children who were sheltering from the falling bombs ahead. 

_"Hitler has only got one ball_   
_The other is in the Albert Hall_   
_His mother, the dirty bugger_   
_Cut off the other, when he was only small!"_

"Alright boys, we've got kids in here!" Harry called out, but it was a voice laced with laughter, and soon the song started up again, even louder, accompanied by a couple of Home Guard men playing the spoons.

_"She threw it into the apple tree_   
_It fell in to the deep blue sea_   
_The fishes got out their dishes_   
_And had scallops and bollocks for tea!"_

Harry laughed again, and clapped the pair on the back. "Excuse me Henry, Brigadier-" he chuckled. "I need to go sort these old boys out, and give them a talking to!"

Harry Westwood walked away, and Henry looked over at England, who was slowly straightening up again. The music and laughter filled Aldwych Underground Station, making him feel slightly warm, and weirdly tingly. 

"Like I said, Arthur," Henry put a hand on England's shoulder. "The spirit is strong."

And for the first time since 1st September 1939, Arthur Kirkland truly, properly smiled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> Paris was invaded by the Axis in June 1940 and officially occupied the city on June 14th. 
> 
> The Blitz in London lasted from 1940-1941, including periods of 50+ days of constant bombing on the city.
> 
> The Home Guard were men who were too young, too old or not eligible to sign up to be in the Army, and wore khaki uniforms. Their official purpose was to prevent invasion on the ground, but as this never happened, they were mostly used to make sure that civilians stayed safe and rules were followed (eg. blackouts).
> 
> Jerries - a common slang term for Germans used during WW2.
> 
> Brigadier - in the UK this is the highest field rank an officer can have in the British Army. Think Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart from Doctor Who! Really high ranked, I can see England being this level, as he probably fought on the front lines at points. 
> 
> Aldwych - Underground stations were unofficially used as bomb stations during the Blitz, although the government hated it and technically made it illegal. Aldwych was one of the many used in this way!
> 
> Winston - Winston Churchill, British Prime Minister from 1940-45.
> 
> Squad Commander - lowest-ranking Home Guard leaders on the ground, often in charge of a small group of men. For the purposes of this story, Henry is just a normal Home Guard member. Harry is his Squad Commander due to his age.
> 
> "Hitler has only got one ball" - one of the many anti-German songs thrown around at this point, often sung to mock the Nazis (hence the whole Hitler only have one bollock sentiment). 
> 
> Scallops - amazing potato squares served with a fish and chip dinner, covered in salt and vinegar. Basically hash browns but so much better. 
> 
> 1st September 1939 - the date that the UK went to war with Germany.


	2. Run for Home - 793

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year is 793 AD, and Lindisfarne is about to be attacked by the fearsome northmen - men that have travelled across the seas to pillage and rape.
> 
> TW: mentions of rape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Northumberland is the OC for this chapter, but in this era she is known as the Kingdom of Northumberia. She's called Aife, after the Celtic female warrior, and is one of England's oldest counties. This is her in her younger years, with a very young Arthur/England (who at this point embodies Wessex, to fit in with the Arthurian legends which are supposedly set in Tintagel, Cornwall and the surrounding areas). 
> 
> Ages: Aife is around fifteen, Arthur is probably more like thirteen.
> 
> The chapter title comes from the song Run For Home by the band Lindisfarne.

Across the sea, Northumberland could see the shadows of the longboats approaching. From her position upon the top of the castle tower, hand curved over her eyes, she knew enough to know that it wouldn't be much longer.

The sea was choppy, and as the bells of the monastery tolled - time ticked down. At the front of the first visible ship was the figure of the Kingdom of Denmark, the pillager that took great glee in raping and desecrating the island every time he stepped onto its soil.

But now they were heading for the holy heart of Christianity itself, the burial ground of St. Cuthbert and Aife's most prized possession. Something that she couldn't stand by and let happen, despite Arthur's words of caution.

 _Arthur_. Aife scoffed, thinking of the upstart child who believed he represented the area of Wessex on this island. Who was she to judge, though? God worked in mysterious ways, and if His purpose was to drive her insane with the thought that little Arthur might one day take over her land - so be it. 

The boy looked to be little more than a young teen, slowly growing into a man. Aife chewed a fingernail, looking down at her too-womanly body, prodding herself where skin stretched over breast tissue. Who knew two protruding lumps prevented you from being able to fight? 

That was why she was here. To fight. Young Arthur of Wessex be damned.

"Lady Aife of Northumbria?" a voice asked from behind her, and Aife turned slowly, regarding the intruder with a level gaze. Not a monk, a civilian. Someone who would most likely fall to an axe. 

She nodded, folding her hands in front of her skirt and stretching her head up. Aife was taller than this human, and she knew it made the boy uncomfortable. 

"Lord Arthur of Wessex requests your presence, milady."

Aife nodded again - choosing to maintain her silence in front of his human boy. Especially as a female personification, she needed to hold her ground against the men of this world who would seek to conquer her. Danmark had his eye on her from across the sea, the most easily accessible of the island's provinces. 

She strode past the boy, descending down the stairs and into the body of the monastery, relaxing her stance as the familiar sounds of chanting flooded her ears. The patterns of Latin syllables were the only ones these monks were allowed to speak. 

Although Aife could never join the order, or even the priesthood, being in places of worship calmed and soothed her. Especially in terms of stress, when men across the sea came to take her. 

Arthur was stood in a small antechamber just a little away from the chorusing monks, back to Aife, blonde hair tucked behind his ears. Young. Upstart. 

"My liege," Aife gathered her skirts and curtseyed deeply, remaining near the ground until Arthur turned to meet their identical green eyes. "What brings you to my country?"

Arthur sighed, looking down at the woman. After a pause, he motioned for her to stand. " My lady, it is not safe," his young voice spoke calmly, even caringly, but the rage was poking through. "I commanded you to stay at Bamburgh."

"With all due respect, my Lord," Aife rose slowly, keeping her voice level against the barely contained fury of Arthur's. "You are neither my father nor my ruler. I am lady of these lands."

A clenched fist. Green eyes glinted dangerously. "You are a woman," Arthur pointed out as if the breasts and dress weren't enough to give the game away. "Danmark will rape you. He will kill you."

Aife straightened, meeting every angry glare. "I am no woman," she countered, voice still level, her age giving her an advantage over this young country. "I am Northumbria. If Danmark takes my heart, he takes me."

The monastery bells sounded again, the sound clanging through the antechamber. The monks continued to chant slowly, Latin words wrapping around Aife like a blanket. "I am a child of God's will," she continued, noticing as Arthur's other hand clenched into a fist. "My duty is to stay with my people."

"Your duty is to stay with your people!" Arthur's voice was rising now, and Aife raised a single finger to her lips to signal that he must hush. "You are no use to this country lying dead in the North Sea."

"I am not," Aife could feel her heart racing now, knowing that the Northmen were close. Ready to strike. "But I am also no use to my country when I am hidden."

"Aife!" Arthur's voice was now a shout. The chanting continued. "You have to come with me!"

She just shook her head. A headache began to pound within her skull. "Arthur of Wessex," Aife took the boy's hand and placed a gentle kiss on the back of it. "I am your elder and superior. I know the duty of a country more than you."

"My-" Arthur began, face red, but Aife held up a hand to silence him. He obeyed the silent command. 

"Thank you for your wise words, Lord Arthur of Wessex," Aife curtseyed again, sweeping down to the ground. "But perhaps, time is a teacher."

She turned away, feeling the headache swell within her mind. The chanting was louder now, as waves crashed far away, and the unmistakable stench of unwashed man and blood spilt onto her lands. The Northmen were here. 

"Perhaps one day you will understand, Lord Arthur," were Aife's departing words, before she left the antechamber to face the horrors of the future, and whatever lay ahead for her and her people. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:
> 
> Arthur is Wessex because of the Arthurian legends. It roughly corresponds to southern England in modern times. 
> 
> Vikings weren't called Vikings in actual Viking times - they were known as Norsemen, Northmen or men from the north. 
> 
> We're not sure if the attackers of Lindisfarne were from Denmark or Norway, but the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle believes they were Danes. I've read the whole Anglo-Saxon Chronicle so I went with that.
> 
> Why is Aife allowed in the monastery? Obviously this technically probably wouldn't be allowed in those times, but she's a personification - technically a country personification at this stage in her life. I think she would be allowed in.


	3. The Ballad of Wakefield - 1460

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's 1460, the midst of the Wars of the Roses. On 30th December, the Yorkist group leaving Wakefield and Sandal Castle are ambushed by the Lancastrian forces. Amidst the fight, Richard Duke of York is killed. 
> 
> Yorkshire is the Duke's chief guard and most loyal soldier. And he wants to bury his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yorkshire is the OC for this chapter, and he starts out being known as Robert Kirkland. He's a hot headed, very angry person, and in 1460 he's been at war for over 5 years. The Wars of the Roses are far from over, but the Battle of Wakefield marks the death of Richard Duke of York. Hence this chapter.
> 
> In modern times he corresponds to the area of North Yorkshire. I'll do stories for the other sections of Yorkshire later - West, East Riding and South!

It was all over now, the bells were tolling in the distance for the dead, each long reverberation signalling the death of an innocent. He lay in the undergrowth, breathing heavily, feeling the cuts on his arms slowly start to mend and weld together. The skin taut around the exposed flesh and muscle. 

Marks from swords and pikes never put him out of commission for long, especially as the Yorkist claim grew stronger. The longer that madman sat on the throne, the more time the Lancastrians had to crumble from the inside out. 

But right now, there was a puncture wound right where his heart should be. A blow to his pride and his army. The person he was meant to protect and serve - dead. Dead in the grass outside Sandal Castle, lost to history. 

Fucking weak.

He laughed harshly, which attracted the attention of the red-clad soldiers in front of him. He internally swore, spitting at the ground as the soldiers came closer, swords thrust out ahead of them. "Who goes there?" one called into the forest he was ensconced within. "Show yourself, in the name of King Henry!"

Another harsh laugh as he realised he'd laid himself at the feet of the Royalist soldiers. It was too good, this would be a story for the bards and jokers at court on 100 years time. 

The sword poked through the bushes, and he flinched away instinctively, putting one hand on his own weapon. Then, slowly, he climbed to his feet, ignoring the burning pain in his stomach as he moved. 

"I wish to seek an audience with the King," he managed to say, keeping his head high despite being found cowering in a bush. "Regarding the safe burial of my Duke Richard of York."

Now it was the turn of the approaching soldiers to laugh. Loudly, as well. Tauntingly. He clenched a fist in the fabric of his glove.

"You think the King wants to speak to a dirty traitor like you?" One soldier spat, a globule of saliva and phlegm hitting him in the eye. "We're taking you prisoner in the name of King Henry VI!"

He shook his head. The soldier that had spat on him snarled and advanced again - but then he held out a hand. "I wish," he paused, thinking hard for a moment. What was the bastard's title nowadays? "I wish to speak with the King's advisor, then."

A quirk of an eyebrow. Another chorus of mocking laughter. Snicker snicker snicker, "lookee here, here's a poor Yorkshireman, lost his way on the way to the chopping block!".

He clenched his fist ever tighter.

"You wish to speak with the Duke of Surrey?" this was spoken by a different soldier, the one that hadn't spat in his face. 

_Duke of Surrey, eh?_ He couldn't hold back the peal of laughter that escaped from him. "Oh, that's rich that is!" he choked out, between giggles and chuckles. "'e's moved up in the world!"

A sword was quickly pressed to his throat, and the laughter finally died down. He smirked, gingerly pushing the tip of the sword away from himself.

"And why should we trust you?" the soldier on the end of the sword asked cockily. "He could be an assassin, couldn't be boys?" A chorus of 'ayes' rose from the men behind the wielder. 

"I am-" was "-the chief protector and bodyguard of Duke Richard of York," he smirked again, even as his side twinged in pain. "If I wished to betray your trust I would have done so already."

The sword was pressed closer to his skin, close enough to nick or maim. He stilled. "Take his arms, men," the soldier instructed, and his arms were quickly grasped and twisted behind his back. "Give me your name. Now!"

He laughed again, quickly stopping as the sword nicked his clavicle. Blood slowly began to drip from the wound. "Lord Kirkland," he stated, chuckling internally at the looks of shock on the soldier's faces. "Lord Kirkland of York."

The news that another Lord Kirkland was in attendance at the Lancastrian camp soon spread like wildfire. The group of soldiers pulling and yanking the young man along were gawked and stared at - but not so much as the glares directed at their prisoner. 

Kirkland just smirked and kept his head held high, knowing that he represented his Duke in every movement he made here. And he had a job and duty to fulfil.

They stopped at a tent, coloured deep crimson red in the official royal colours. Kirkland scowled as his arms were dropped, doubtless leaving him with bruises all over. But that was not his concern.

There was a voice, a voice he recognised, that came from within the tent. A voice that instinctively made Kirkland reach for his sword again. "Come in," was all it said, in its perfectly accented English.

He was pushed through the flaps of the opening, and into the candlelit beyond. Then, Kirkland snarled, pulling his sword out of the sheath before he could second-guess his actions, and surged forward to hold it to the throat of his brother- _Lancaster, that dirty fucking prick, tarnished with the blood of my leader and enslaved to a madman and a witch wearing crowns on a throne that belongs to my people-_

His brother didn't waver. Didn't move. Just stood there, glaring at his enemy. The sword didn't move, didn't plunge in deep, because even as Yorkshire felt fury rush through his veins, those eyes were the eyes of his family. 

"Yorkshire," it wasn't Lancashire who spoke, but rather Arthur Kirkland, Duke of Surrey himself. Chief advisor to King Henry VI, pain in Yorkshire's backside and the personification of England. His father, if personified provinces had parents. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Yorkshire snarled, casting one last hateful look at Lancashire before he turned on England, walking over to the man's desk and slamming a hand down. "You's killed him!" he hissed, finally letting the anger take over. " _YOU'S KILLED HIM_!"

England just shrugged. "We are at war, Yorkshire," he said, calmly and simply. "An eye for an eye."

Yorkshire scoffed, looking directly at his country, and then over to his estranged brother. "What happened to family, eh?" he asked scathingly. "What happened to NEVER FUCKIN' LEAVIN' EACH OTHER?"

"Times change," was all England responded with. "And may I remind you, it is still treason to speak against our King."

"Our King?" Yorkshire scoffed. "Our King?" he slammed a hand down on England's desk again. "He has no claim to the throne! That man is insane, England. He is _insane_."

England's expression raised into a scowl at these words. "Do not speak ill of your sovereign!" he snarled, slamming his hand over Yorkshire's. "Do you hear me?"

"He is not me sovereign!" Yorkshire yelled back, glaring right into his country's sea green eyes. He knew his own where the same colour. "And 'e never will be."

He pulled away, breathing heavily. The sword slipped back into it's sheath, and he pushed a few strands of damp black hair off his forehead. Lancashire still didn't speak. 

"Robert-" England began, but Yorkshire shook his head.

"No, no, I choose me name now," he took a deep breath in, focusing on his surroundings. These men were his family. Fighting on different sides didn't change that. "This'll be nowt without consequence, ye hear me?"

Silence settled over the tent once more, punctuated only by Yorkshire's heavy breathing. "I want ta bury 'im," he said quietly. "'E's my Duke. I need ta bury 'is body."

"His head," England sighed, and for a second Yorkshire thought he might have been sorry. But no, England was never sorry about his actions during war. "His head will be displayed on a spike over Micklegate. I cannot prevent that."

"He fucking deserved it, the traitor," Lancashire spat, and Yorkshire whirled on him. 

"You callin' 'im a traitor?" Yorkshire put a hand on his sword again, but then drew back, looking directly into his brother's eyes. "Ye know, to me, yous are the traitors."

"You can bury his body," England continued, once the anger in Yorkshire had died down again. "As long as the grave is not marked."

Yorkshire sighed, and dropped his hand. He knew that if he pressed his brother any further, he would lose the right to bury his beloved Duke forever. "Ye have me word," he nodded, although the movement made some part of him scream to behead them both and take over. 

Lancashire didn't say anything this time. No clever retort or message, not even words of sympathy. Just something that could have been victory glimmering in his eyes. 

"My name is Richard," the split second decision was reflected in Lancashire's eyes. Anger? Spite? No- the little arsehole was surprised. "In honour of the rightful King of England." 

And then Yorkshire - Richard Kirkland, Yorkist loyalist and the new guard of the King-to-be, Edward of York - left. He didn't so much as glance at his brother or his country as he did, and kept a careful hand placed on the hilt of his sword. 

He could feel the dirt under his fingers already. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on this chapter:
> 
> The Wars of the Roses started in 1455 and lasted up until 1487. This chapter is set in 1460, 5 years after the war started, and around 6 months before Edward IV took the throne from Henry VI.
> 
> Henry VI was insane, most likely - he had two periods of complete mental breakdown where he didn't acknowledge anyone. Mental health issues ran in that royal family (his grandfather (?) believed that he was a pane of glass and would shatter when touched, and had metal rods fitted to his clothes).
> 
> The Wars of the Roses was, in its most basic form, the Lancastrians (Henry VI) vs the Yorkists (Richard Duke of York and Edward IV). Hence Yorkshire fighting against England- as he would support the King of England- and Lancashire. 
> 
> Duke of Surrey - I picked this title out of my arse, mostly because I don't believe anyone else had this title in 1460. It was open for Iggy to have. 
> 
> Final note: I tried my best with the accent, my family are from Yorkshire so I really hope I didn't mess it up too badly.


	4. Albion's Protector - AD 61

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meredith is a name of Celtic origin meaning chief and protector. 
> 
> She's intended to be the modern-day personification of Norfolk, who was once the personification of the Iceni tribe - who are famous for their final leader, Boudicca. This is set after Boudicca's defeat, and a key moment in my headcanon for England's backstory.
> 
> Gaul was the area of France, Germany and England (some parts of Spain and Italy too), named by the Romans. I needed an 'ancient' personification, and Gaul fit, especially as an often-used headcanon name for Ancient England is taken. As you'll see.

“No, no! Don’t hurt me! I beg of you!”

She’s been crying for what feels like hours now, although it must have only been ten minutes. Her breathing is shallow, she’s struggling to grip onto reality as what should have been her proudest moment becomes her greatest defeat. Her chest tightens. It’s impossible to swallow, the ground is eating her up and bringing her down into its depths. 

They couldn’t hurt her, even if they wanted to. Not that these men know that, with their strange language and overseas brash, violent manner. Heathens, barbarians - although she knows that they must think the same of her.

“ _ Silentium! _ ” the man holding her yells, spitting into her open, agape mouth. She retches at the sensation, bringing up bile in her mouth. The saving grace of a sparse, unflavoured diet. Then a garbled mess of words she doesn’t recognise and can’t identify.

But she’s being pulled up, shoved back, a cloak is wrapped around her shivering arms. And she looks up.

“My dear child,” Gaul holds a hand over her mouth, as she threatens to scream. “No, no, be quiet now. That’s good.”

Be quiet she must, as a massive hand is clamped over her mouth, and she knows she cannot fight against the mother of all nations. Her lady is in danger, is maybe dying, but Gaul holds her in place. She can’t even struggle. Resistance is pointless.

“Good,” Gaul murmurs, mouth close to her ear. She shivers, but is still held in place. A million questions erupt from her mind, but Gaul’s grip does not loosen. As the strange men converse in their harsh, overseas tones, she is pulled away from the scene. Away from her place by the side of her lady. Although who knows where her lady is now.

They stand in a muddy Celtic field, no remnants of civilisation to be seen. Gaul is quiet, moving her hand from mouth to other, smaller hand to grip it tightly. Gaul’s next words break her heart.

“My child,” although Gaul is no kind, motherly figure, she stoops down, and properly fastens the cloak around her shoulders. One hand is placed on her shoulder. “I must name you.”

Suddenly, the air feels warmer. She opens her eyes wider, finally feeling strength flood through her veins. Is this the moment? Ever since she was born she was told she was born for great things, that she was to be the leader of her people. But until now she has only been second fiddle- often willing, like to her great lady Boudicca- but also knowing that she deserves more, and will one day have more. 

But Gaul is beckoning someone. And her heart falls. Who is she, if she is not the spirit of this country?

“You are Meredith,” Gaul whispers, shaking off the remnants of her previous, human name. Meredith has become someone else now. “Protector. Chief. You are strong, no?”

Meredith nods, and Gaul’s hand is replaced with another, yet smaller one. She looks down.

“This is Albion,” Gaul’s voice is now hushed, reverent. “Your country.”

It feels like a punch to the chest, being told that all Meredith has been told is wrong. She has helped lead an army by the side of her lady, she has been strong for her people, the Iceni - although without her lady, she may as well disappear and whisper away. 

“But-” Meredith’s words catch in her throat. The small boy’s hand is clammy - he is clearly terrified, dressed in clothes far too formal for a young, Celtic boy of his age. Does Gaul not know who they are ruled by? “Gaul… My lady…”

Gaul walks away, eyes downcast. “I am afraid,” she takes a deep breath, looks back at Meredith, and gives her a small smile. “Your lady is dead these two hours since. This is your duty now. Be the protector of your country.”

Although she knew, she  _ knew  _ this was coming (what else has she been doing but watching her friends and loves due around her?), it still comes with an ache. That Meredith’s past is done with. That she needs to fade away with her lady.

“I am proud of you,” Gaul nods, and then looks down at Albion. “But this boy needs a protector.”

Her country. A small, tiny boy, thumb in his mouth. For a second, Meredith feels a sense of anger, and feels the urge to grasp this boy and throw him into the North Sea. But then his grip tightens on her hand, and she feels that warmth again. 

“I shall!” she calls after Gaul, but receives only a wave in response as the woman moves away, red hair flowing in the wind. “I… I shall!”

Because she knows that her lady is looking down on her, and that this is her duty now. Her chance at reclaiming glory for her tribe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Silencium - silence (Latin)


End file.
